PBEM Orlantia

The Story So Far
Chapter 032

PBEM Orlantia: Once More With Death We Dance.

The Flare spell had done its job almost perfectly. As Sef rounded in his charging arc, the nightmare had heard the movement of his final strides and looked back to see what it was, only to be greeted with the blinding flash.

Missiles zipped in from the pantry entrance before the ranger reached his target. As he expected, Mystir's sling bullet went wide and skipped off the wall. He had erred on the side of caution by giving the sling the necessary flick of the wrist to hit to Sef's right, if anything. Well, he succeeded. Perhaps it was not the time to be overly cautious.

Valin's borrowed crossbow, on the other hand, both found its mark, and pierced the nightmare's unholy hide - a direct hit, a spurt of flame erupting from its flank. The creature cried out in startled pain, never having really seen it coming, and it staggered back away from the crates in the corner and toward Sef's charge.

The ranger laid into the beast just that much sooner, his full weight and momentum behind Alonwë, following through on his charge, almost oblivious where he might end up afterwards in an unconcerned, do or die charge. It was a foolish move, truth be told, but luck sometimes favored the foolish.

Alonwë sliced open the beast's chest, a gush of bright red blood surging forth, only to burst into yellowish flames a second later, a wail of disbelief and anguish echoing off the ceiling and through the halls, filling the temple with sounds of torment not heard there in centuries. But still the nightmare did not go down.

Febriwyn, hobbling after Sef, lunged at it, too, but the pain in his own leg was too much to ask, and his thrust went wide as his body betrayed him and favored his leg. He had hit the creature, but the blow had been way too glancing to ever pierce the stone hard hide of the horse from hell.

Afyanna came last to the melee, but with remarkable luck, her blow was also true - albeit minor in comparison to injuries inflicted by Sef and Valin. But every little bit helped, she knew, and it was already more than she had hoped for.

Alana approached next, still slightly dizzy from her recent incantations, but she forced herself forward to see into the corner. Light and shadow, screams of pain, echoes and open melee, she could not be sure of what she saw amid the confusion, if she saw anything at all. But for a moment it looked as if a cat had scrambled out from behind the crates and momentarily perched atop the dusty, wooden boxes. Cat or shadow, she could not be sure - she was dizzy from her mental exertions. But the cat, or the shadow, then seemed to fade into the background, like a still, unmoving shadow being lost or swallowed inside a deeper, creeping darkness. And then it was gone. Only wooden crates remained, now broken and smashed from the nightmare's latest excavations. Irregularly shaped wood remained behind - only this, and nothing more.

In anger and frustration, the nightmare reared up, spun around, and struck down the distracted druid in its charge for the entryway. Alana fell to the stone floor, deathly silent, knocked unconscious by two flaming hooves in the creature's desperate charge to escape.

Whatever else they had accomplished, they had done that much. The laughing nightmare from before, which had been chasing them with arrogant delight and certainty, was now fleeing, a frantic look in its hate filled eyes.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: Let The Time Be Now.

*YES!* Afyanna's mind exclaimed. The holy warrior maintained her focus, but elation filled her veins, adding more fuel to her adrenaline-soaked muscles.

The beast shrieked but refused to go down. The ex-cavalry messenger knew the sound of a steed in pain - and this thing was near death. Afyanna slid to a stop from her charge and readied for the nightmare's reply. But instead, the beast raced toward the entrance, fleeing.

"NO!" She screamed. "Don't let it escape!"

Afy knew the horse could outrun her in the straight corridor, and from there it was only a turn to the entrance of the temple and its freedom. She had to catch it - and stop it - now, before it could reach the hall.

Chasing after the beast with a longsword wouldn't accomplish much. There was just no way to put any weight behind a swing. Afyanna slammed her sword into its scabbard and whisked her dagger from the sheath tied to her right thigh.

The rubbish-strewn floor of the pantry made gaining her footing difficult, but Afy shifted her weight from her defensive stance and took off as fast as she could after the hell beast. She had to catch it before it made the turn. She must.

As the beast slowed to make the turn, Afyanna gripped the dagger with both hands and leapt with everything she had.

- Rick (Afyanna)

PBEM Orlantia: The Hunter Hunted

If he had ever considered his position, Sefarlain would have wondered at the rapidity of change of their situation. First they hunted the nightmare across the land, then they were trapped in the village caves by the beast, and then at their final meeting first trapped and then the finally, once again, the hunters.

*A fickle mistress is fate,* he pondered for an instant.

Fortunately for the party, his reflexes were not dulled by such idle thoughts. As the nightmare ran over Alana and headed for the exit, the ranger shifted his weight, wheeling round in a smooth movement to face the exit. Within an instant he realized the beast's intentions.

"Alonwë hurt it! And now it flees her wrath."

Sefarlain had never been sure why he considered his longsword to be female; it certainly wasn't a cultural distinction or something exclusive to the Valantaúr. But he had always referred to the sword, as 'she,' and this was no time to consider the fact, let alone the idea that the sword, rather than the wielder, had damaged the beast.

Without thinking further and without time to consider a missile attack, he chased after the horse with Alonwë in hand.

Now the nightmare would feel the full wrath of the Valantaúr and the Golodhrim he wielded!

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia: Angle and Timing.

*It's fleeing,* Mystir thought, a slight smile spread across his face as the nightmare broke for the hallway, but then he also realized he was still practically standing in that hall - and the nightmare was charging right at him and Valin.

*They aren't going to catch it,* he thought, as Afy and Sef rushed after the beast.

Hurting the hell horse without magic was eluding Mystir. But maybe he could slow it down. From his position, the boy hoped to injure the equine as it ran past him.

*Just slow it down,* he thought to himself, *and don't get trampled trying.*

As the distance closed, Mystir gripped his staff with both hands.

*Close, but not too close,* he warned himself. In fact, he was hoping to stay well out of range of the beast, so he gave it room enough to pass, but was still within staff's length. He should be able to stay out of the path of the creature's hooves, and fangs. Hopefully.

He observed the horse's speed, height, length, and distance from the ground. The attack became nothing more than a calculation - the angle of the swing and its timing. Timing was the key. It shouldn't take much force, he figured, as long as he could get the staff in the right position at the right time, maybe he could trip the beast up.

- Kevin (Mystir)

PBEM Orlantia: One More Chance.

The scourge of Wrath was fleeing, but somewhat slowly, Afyanna perceived. *Perhaps it's really hurt,* she thought, knowing in normal circumstances it could easily outpace her by leaps and bounds. Yet, though it was still faster than she, it wasn't as fast as expected.

Mystir saw the same thing as he timed his staff blow - a tripping tactic. *It's cautious,* he thought. *It's slowing down and readying itself for me,* the young boy figured as he swallowed, a wisp of fear surging through him as the thing neared.

Sefarlain, on the other hand, with ranger's sense and a warrior's clarity saw something different. He ran after the beast, dropping Alonwë of all things. He could scarcely believe it himself, but he knew he would not catch the hell horse on foot, so as his hands flew to ready his bow, the sword clattered to the floor - almost as if forgotten by all save gravity's ubiquitous embrace. He had not time to sheath it properly.

Wyn's sword also clattered up ahead on the stone pantry floor at the same time, though it had not been dropped. A few painful steps had told the rogue he was well out of it, and in desperate anger he threw his sword in two-handed overhead fashion, trying to use his dirkmanship and skill at throwing daggers to properly aim and propel the overly large substitute. It was quite an impressive spectacle, truth be told.

The sword made a perfect, single half revolution in its trajectory, its point meeting the nightmare's backside rather than flat or hilt. Even after all that, with injuries too painful to describe, he had thrown the sword almost exactly like a well-aimed dagger. On a normal horse it would have been telling. Alas, on the hide of the beast from hell, it lacked the prerequisite thrust and power at that distance, however well aimed it had been. The blade clattered to the floor, uselessly, coming to a stop a few feet beyond.

Afy's dagger, thrown without so much skill, was equally useless. She didn't even touch it, though if she had, it did carry the force required, for she was much closer and much stronger. Too bad for the innocent stonewall beyond, for it would now bear the dagger's angry mark for all eternity.

Alana, unconscious and bleeding, lay behind as her fellows rallied after the nightmare. It was difficult to be certain, but odds were - as an adventurer - she would have approved their actions, and appreciated being left for the moment. There were more important matters to attend than she, and her life itself was not of highest priority in the midst of combat.

Sefarlain nocked his arrow while running - impressing himself as he did so, for as anyone who has tried this can attest, it is not an easy feat. Drawing it back on the fly was less impressive. Aiming it? He did not - at least not in traditional sense. He felt his target. He knew it was right. Then he left the arrow soar.

Excellent awareness, a sixth sense, sheer luck, or just an incredibly short range, it did not matter. The arrow stuck. It didn't just hit it, or wound it, or cut it in glancing fashion - it impaled its hindquarter and stuck into the beast. The horse screamed in agony, each movement of its rear quarters tormenting it further, aggravating the injury. And it would doubtless have remained so, had the arrow not suddenly burst into flames, falling away.

Valin alone stood his ground, blocking the entryway. If the nightmare would pass him, it would have to take him out first. The Rogue of Hermes held up the heavy crossbow - having had insufficient time to reload the contraption - and used it as a shield - steeling himself for impact.

Multiple events conspired against evil that day. A roguish cleric blocking the entryway with no sense of self preservation, an unexpected distraction of the clattering of steel to its immediate right, the unanticipated pain of a successful rear attack from creatures known to be too slow to catch it, even on a good day, and the desperate need to escape, all intermingled with an all-pervading fear of a coward. But the cleric was of the highest concern. Get past it, and freedom lay beyond. Ignore the puny mage - it is no threat. No threat at all.

A quick turn toward Valin and the nightmare charged the entryway - ignoring all else, concentrating on that one all-important remaining task.

The staff was thrust between thundering, muscle bound forelegs of hell's champion, a loud snapping sound echoing off stonewalls throughout the temple and pantry.

Mystir's staff had been snapped in two, but it wasn't alone. The nightmare's momentum carried it forward, its broken left front leg unable to support its weight, and it crashed into the floor, slid, then slammed into the wall between Valin and Mystir.

A normal horse would have laid there in agony and helplessness - unless it was fortunate enough to be put out of its misery by a compassionate soul. But as it had proven many times before, this abomination was not a normal horse.

It began to immediately levitate, up and away from the wall; it bore a strange list to one side, and its neck and head twisted toward the other side, as if to compensate for the odd distribution of weight. The beast looked miserable. It was, at best, almost floating, perhaps drifting - certainly no faster than a man could walk.

Mystir looked on, suddenly aware of the pain in his hands. Looking down, he saw they were bleeding. The shattering staff, ripped from his hands, had left a few significant splinters behind, and a numbing tingling sensation ran up his arms, making them feel like a ringing bell.

While so distracted - however briefly - the nightmare proved itself to still be a danger by lashing out and clouting Mystir's head with its good, remaining foreleg. The young boy reeled back, in pain, but remained standing. There was little force behind the creature's blow.

The nightmare then began to drift back into the pantry, making its way toward the southwest hallway, almost at the leisurely pace of a man on his evening stroll. Whatever else you could say about the nightmare, it wasn't giving up. It wasn't finished.

As it drifted over the discarded Continual Light stone, the light played along its underside and flanks, giving all a spectacular view of a magnificently constructed animal. The nightmare turned mid-flight, spinning as it retreated, now backing up while keeping its twisted, cocked face toward its foes. The light shown each mark and injury and one could tell it was near death - but the hate in its eyes grew anew, and its fiery hooves flamed brighter and hotter than even before. One could feel the malevolence emanating from its very being. No, it was not over yet.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: The Last Hurrah!

Like bloodied and bitter enemies, each refusing to surrender, the foes continued to throw all they had into this last battle. Only one side would survive, but at last Sefarlain saw a glimmer of hope in the last few moments. Had not his arrow literally disappeared into the fell beast's flank? Now the moment had come.

Trying to stay away from underneath the nightmare, Sefarlain arched his back and drew forth another Alderian arrow. He aimed and let fly at the belly of the nightmare, praying to Corellon in his holy temple.

"Let this be its doom, Lord!"

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia: A Wizard's Final Attack.

Mystir staggered back. Never before had he felt such pain. Although disoriented, the boy quickly shook it off; intense spell casting often had the same effect, but through training the wizard had learned how to quickly refocus his mind.

The halfelf continued to move away from the creature. The beast could charge at any moment. *Or can it?* he wondered. The wounds on the hell horse were immense. Was its death near?

A few more steps in reverse and Mystir bent down. Pain welcomed him as his blood-covered palm gripped a hilt, his left hand drawing one of a pair of daggers from his lower leg. The eyes of the wizard remained on the slow-moving equine as he painfully and cautiously transferred the blade of the weapon to his right hand.

Standing again, the boy prepared to throw the dagger. Pain welled inside of him as his grip tightened. With the release of the blade came a scream. Letting the blade go caused as much pain, if not more, than his tight grip. The fact it missed only made it hurt that much more.

The pain overwhelmed him. Blood covered him. His thoughts returned to those that had fallen. Alana had joined the growing list and she needed aid. Mystir moved towards her body, as quickly as he dared, picking splinters from his palms and leaving a slight trail of blood.

- Kevin (Mystir)

PBEM Orlantia: Let This Be Its Final Breath.

Afyanna wrinkled her nose in disgust. The heavy sulfurous odor that always seemed to accompany the nightmare hung thick in the enclosed pantry, though it was . . . different somehow. Afyanna couldn't put her finger on it, but the smell wasn't the same as when it first appeared.

*It's beaten,* she realized. *And it knows it.*

The holy warrior knew that the nightmare was now even more dangerous than before. No longer would it fight simply to get away. Instead, it was just as likely to fight to try to kill as many of them as possible before it died, too. She was going to have to adjust her tactics to account for that.

Afyanna slowed her advance toward the beast and angled more toward the southwestern hall. She hoped to dissuade the creature from making a dash, such as it could, toward that exit. Besides, in her condition it would be better to finish the fight from a distance. So the longer the nightmare remained in the room, the more arrows Sef could drive into its thick hide. But if the nightmare decided to try to escape, Afy planned to be in a position to stop it.

With her green eyes focused on the beast's own flame-red ones, Afyanna slowly and deliberately slid her sword from its scabbard and continued her positioning.

- Rick (Afyanna)

PBEM Orlantia: A Sorry Beast.

Febriwyn stumbled forward, his injured leg bearing the brunt of his momentum as he recovered from the impetus of the sword's arc. The pain in his leg was numbing, he knew, when given sufficient time to dwell on it, and every force caused the equivalent of an explosion of pain in his muscles.

Despite this, the rogue was unable to divert even the smallest portion of his attention from his actually quite impressive throw.

Back in camp, throwing daggers had been one of his father's friends few sports in which the young elf was allowed to engage. He had actually become rather decent, though still sufficiently lacking to lose a fair silver piece or two on occasion. A sword wasn't quite the same; it was neither as light as the daggers nor as balanced and, though Febriwyn could see its gleaming blade slice through the air without the slightest wobble or unsteadiness, it was hard to tell if it would hit.

But hit it did and Febriwyn's face lit up with pride, even as he saw it deflect from the beast's hide. The rogue was willing to accept the sword doing no damage to the accursed hide of such a beast . . . *Though perhaps,* considered Febriwyn now in mid-stride towards the monster, *if we do kill it, I can make something of that unholy resistance.*

The one thing Febriwyn had not thought of and now deeply regretted as his eyes filled with fear was what would happen after the sword struck the beast. For, now that it had bounced, the sword continued on with a measure of power and, to the rogue's terrible fear, came to a clanging collision with the stony floor.

Febriwyn slowed, perhaps in terror, for he had been taught few things more important than good care for one's sword, and had his father seen that stunt, the elf might have found himself searching for shelter for a month. Then again, his father wasn't there.

Returning his attention to the battle at hand, Febriwyn caught sight of the nightmare bearing down on his comrade. A sliver of wood flashed between the legs of the beast and a loud crack joined the hoof beats and heaving breathing that until then had filled the room with noise. The creature crashed to the ground, its inertia shattering the staff that brought it down.

And yet, the beast did not lay still.

Truly, Febriwyn had never encountered such a creature that so desperately, and dangerously, fought for its life as this one had. He'd seen men beg for mercy and run like cowards before their death, but never an animal. In fact, the very thing held Febriwyn in position so curiously watching the beast that he forgot to close to finish it.

Instead, up the beast rose and with the harsh slap of bone on bone, or something near enough, another of Febriwyn's allies suffered from this thing's hatred. That was all that was needed to bring him back from his momentary musings, though, and Febriwyn dashed forward, ignoring the pain in his leg, to retrieve Alonwë where Sef had dropped it, and to prevent the beast from finding refuge at the southwestern exit, he hopped toward the hall as fast as he could.

- Febriwyn (Brandon)

PBEM Orlantia: Wondrous End.

Valin, relieved at the nightmare's retreat toward the other exit to the pantry, returned his efforts to arming the heavy crossbow. It would have made a poor shield, anyway, but he had lost time readying it as such. Now he quickly worked the pulley crank and drew the heavy bowstring back, hoping he could yet fire another bolt before the nightmare disappeared down the southwestern hall.

Almost lazily drifting backward, and keeping its malevolent gaze upon its foes, the nightmare floated toward the hall and possible escape, exactly the way horses don't. If the atmosphere hadn't been so charged with tension, hate, and desperation, one would have marveled at the spectacle.

Both Afyanna and Wyn, having had the same idea, circled the beast, cutting off its escape route. Despite their own injuries, they were now faster than it - at least so it seemed. Afyanna didn't trust it, however, and she knew it might still have more fight and speed in it than it let on. The damn thing wasn't a dumb horse, after all, and everything it did reaffirmed that idea and slapped the otherwise deceptive visual fact that it was nothing but a horse right out of their minds.

Seeing that it had been flanked, the nightmare stopped and hovered in the middle of the pantry. Foes to the rear of it, foes and walls to its sides, foes in front of it - it was surrounded - or so many might think. Foolish creatures such as those doubtlessly thought in two dimensions. Granted, it had seen more clever ones think in three, but it had yet to meet any that thought in higher dimensions.

Quickly, it concentrated on an upper plane, mentally trying to shift itself from one existence to a higher one.

Nothing.

Nothing?

NOTHING!!!

It had lost too much blood. It was now too weak and badly wounded to make the transition. It had stayed too long.

Rage, rage against its now inevitable defeat filled its core. RAGE!!!

And yet, there was an acceptance of this fact as well - an acceptance that had been growing ever since the puny creatures had eliminated the soul field. Yet its very being, its core existence, its spirit itself still screamed its hatred for others, even in defeat. If it were to be death, then let there be as much death as possible. Death and suffering were beautiful.

Its sharp mind, far beyond that of a normal horse, sought to maximize its infliction of suffering one more time. It would kill one or two more of its foes in melee, if it could. Its foes were badly wounded, too. It could easily be done.

Then the nightmare realized none of its foes were approaching it, and only then spied the missile weapons being readied and aimed in its direction. Its foes were weak, but still too smart to needlessly risk their useless, pale thin hides. It could no longer afford to wait for them to attack. Too bad. That would have maximized their suffering. No, it would have to make one more charge. But where?

Heavy crossbow and longbow to its front, it did not want to lessen the distance to them. It turned mid air and faced Afyanna and Wyn, who now blocked the southwestern hall. They looked . . . soft enough. And that bitch emanated a totally unacceptable aura in the bargain. She had to die, if no other. She was to blame, it knew.

A scream burst forth as it madly charged the waiting pair, but its lackluster effort wasn't impressively momentous, lacking sufficient speed to propel its mass to good effect. Instead, its flaming hooves burned hotter and hotter and it began to actually spit wisps of fire in its charge. It could still burn them to death.

Seeing another dagger would doubtlessly miss as the beast ran away from the young wizard, Mystir turned to Alana and began to dress her wounds, uncertain of how much further neglect the monastic druid could endure.

Valin ran to angle his shot, not wanting Afy and Wyn to be in the line of fire. Sef already had a good angle but took extra effort to ensure his aim, and then both missiles flew forth simultaneously just as the nightmare reached the blocking pair of adventurers.

Then everything happened at once.

Afy's blade was turned once more and she was knocked down, though uninjured further, while Alonwë was driven upwards, slicing into the hide that had so often been proof against their efforts. Both missiles must have hit, so they would argue many times later, since no trace of them was found afterwards, and no mark upon floor, ceiling, or walls could ever be discovered.

A yellowish flash of flame engulfed the scene, momentarily blinding any with open eyes, but the licks of flame that engulfed Wyn and Afy seemed to carry no bite and almost felt cold to the touch, as a great sucking sensation seemed to swallow the air around them, and the wind rushed in to fill the waiting vacuum.

A curious sound followed, like a whistle or a single note on a flute, then rising sharply in pitch for a split second before a loud popping noise echoed off the walls.

Mystir watched the spectacle while his busy hands dressed Alana's wounds with bandages, for it did not require looking at them; such training was often done in total darkness, so the mage could spare a glance at the unfolding events. Later on, it would be discovered he had had the best view of all of them, having luckily missed the flash when he happened to be looking at Alana. Besides, the residual effects of the Detect Magic may have been lingering as well. He was never certain.

It looked like a collapsing sphere - a bubble the size of a horse - not breaking or bursting outwards, but inwardly falling in on itself, shrinking to nothingness in the wink of an eye. A pale, ghostly horse shaped image remained - though only Mystir ever saw this - and even that slowly faded from view. The young wizard would later recount the dirtiest look he had ever witnessed was upon the ghostly horse's visage. It was a look of disbelief, and utter disgust.

Meanwhile, for the others who could not see that image, a small, whitish object flew up at the pop, spun around again and again in an arc, and finally came down and hit the floor where it rolled a fair distance, then finally stopped when it hit the wall.

Silence reigned once more. One could only hear one's own heavy breathing, the other sounds lost in comparison.

Then a noise broke the calm.

"Mmmmmmeeerrrrooowwwwww," Lucian said.

Eyes refocused and turned toward the noise, where the black cat was pawing at the object, almost testing it for movement, like a cat playing with a mouse. But the thing didn't respond to its jabs. Satisfied, the cat's tail rose high in the air with pride and it pranced over to the Continual Light rock and took its chain in its mouth and began to play with its new cat toy. Then it bounded over to Mystir and Alana, the light bouncing along the floor as the cat danced over it with ease.

The mage looked at the cat in wonder. Lucian then remained passive, holding the light up in its mouth, illuminating his fallen mistress. With a slight chuckle, Mystir returned to his work caring for Alana, now that the cat was helping him see the work better. Quietly he wondered how difficult it was going to be to get the rock away from the cat later on.

Afyanna used the hallway wall to prop herself up, then shook the dizzy cobwebs from her mind, finally looking around and assessing their apparent victory. They had done it. *Thank you, my lord,* she gave her prayer of thanks.

Bebe entered - better late than never, so she would often later say. And it was true, for without her skills and magic, things would have gone much slower and possibly worse. Valin and Bebe then approached Mystir and Alana to render what aid they could.

Febriwyn relaxed, sitting down and smiling to himself, determined to totally catch his breath before he would even consider moving again, and taking that time to admire Alonwë, realizing for the first time the elven blade he held was of master craftsmanship. He would hate to give it back.

Sef alone approached the white object upon the floor and looked at it. It was a small, ivory colored, roughly quadrupedally shaped stone statuette. The ranger turned his back to the wall, then slid down against its embrace near the thing. After a moment, he finally picked up the small figurine and looked at it in wonder.

"Huh?" he said.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: All That Remains.

*Damn,* the boy thought, as he continued tending to the wounds of Alana. He had wanted to take samples of the beast; skin, saliva, blood, hoof and hair samples. These simple pieces of a creature could hold tremendous magical power. And coming from a magical beast itself, the possibilities had excited the wizard.

Unfortunately, there was no carcass to examine and no samples to take. And with the disappearance of the nightmare came a new twist on the events surrounding Wrath, at least in the eyes of the wizard.

"Not bad," he said to himself, gauging his efforts on the wounds. Mystir took a moment to ensure he had done all he could for the druid before standing and making his way towards the 'remains' of the nightmare.

The movement had all but consumed him. His head throbbed and the fury of battle had left him drained. The cold stonewall and floor seemed more inviting to the boy than the most luxurious of beds. Sliding down beside Sef, the halfelf took a moment to rest.

Mystir watched the elf ponder over the piece, twisting and turning the shape about. As the ranger's examination wound down the wizard asked, "May I?"

"Of course," was the reply, and Sef extended his hand and proffered the ivory lump.

About to pick up the ivory colored object, Mystir realized his hands were a deep red. Smeared and semidried blood covered his youthful palms, and the pain was noticeable. Yet he let out a slight chuckle. The boy finally decided to just look at it instead of holding it, and leaned over to get a bit closer.

Shaking his head, Mystir pondered the day's events. He didn't like his deduction.

"Guys," the exhausted wizard said, "I don't think the nightmare being here was an accident."

The idea of such death and destruction being planned caught the attention of the party.

"But who would do such a thing?" asked Bebe.

"And why?" interjected Afyanna.

Mystir shrugged and shook his head. He didn't have the answers to those questions. But he could try to explain his reasoning, "From what I can tell, the creature was summoned."

Sighing, he continued. "If it were here on its own accord, its death would have ended with its lifeless body strewn about the floor." He pointed to Sef's hand and added, "But we have this, instead."

The eyes of the party focused on the ivory figure.

"I don't know why," the wizard continued. "It could be someone after Wrath's secret," he said, looking in the direction of the catacombs, "or it could be someone trying to protect it."

Tilting his head back, Mystir closed his eyes. He wanted sleep.

"If summoned on its own, it would take a very powerful person. But if the spirit of the creature was linked to an object it could be summoned by anyone with the key."

Such figures were rare, Mystir knew, but they did exist. The wizard had not heard of any such statues summoning horrific creatures, but if a horse could be linked to one, then why not a hell-horse?

"I don't have the answers," he finally added. "In fact, I probably have more questions than any of you. But I fear that the plight of Wrath may not be over."

- Kevin (Mystir)

PBEM Orlantia: Fresh Air.

Inwardly groaning, Febriwyn climbed gingerly to his feet, his thigh burning in even greater pain now that the single-mindedness of combat, and its discipline of ignoring any pain was rapidly wearing off.

Walking slowly, Febriwyn made his way across the room to his sword, noting a small silvery shine of scraped metal near the edge - damage done in his foolish, yet magnificent throw. The others were gathering to discuss their victory, but Febriwyn wasn't interested. Let them discuss it; he would guard them.

The elven rogue bent over and lifted his sword from the stone floor, quietly sheathing it before making his way towards the entrance, his desire for the nearness of nature drawing him ever forward and upward, until at last he was once again outside where the embrace of a fresh wind greeted him.

- Febriwyn (Brandon)

PBEM Orlantia: To The Victor Go The Spoils

When the nightmare moved away from the entrance and the party had encircled the beast, Sef remembered thinking, *Excellent! We're learning,* since it had had nowhere to go. Even as he positioned himself and had carefully taken aim, knowing his arrow could secure all their fates, his pride had began to swell in a job well done.

Afterwards he would describe the battle in more flowing terms, but as the beast vanished from their plane, he was left with a profound sense of disappointment. He had defeated a bear and had had its pelt on his back before Brambles had torn the pelt apart, and the Timber had fallen from a mighty blow from Alonwë, and it remained in the main temple. He quietly reminded himself to collect a bough for some arrows or the like. But the nightmare, which had caused him so much anguish he could barely give voice to his anger, had completely vanished without so much as a drop of blood for him to show and with which to hang his victory.

There was nothing, no trophy at all, except perhaps a small bone or something that had fallen to the floor. In the gloom, most had missed it at first, save Lucian. Sef had wandered over and had given it the most cursory of examinations.

A crude stone statue remained in his hands; a horse perhaps, and yet not so. To his refined artistic senses the portrayal was crude in the extreme. Who had made this? Did it hold the secret to the nightmare's appearance, because no one had yet explained why that abomination had appeared in Wrath?

After slumping on the floor, overcome with exhaustion and holding the statue in his hand, Mystir had come over and with more experienced eyes began to study the figurine. Sefarlain began to feel an oppressive air from the temple mixed in with crushing tiredness. He needed the sunlight and to breathe in the open for a while, so he stood and walked towards where he had dropped Alonwë.

She was gone, but before he began to feel alarm, Sefarlain remembered seeing Wyn collect her from the darkness. He relaxed and followed Wyn outside to the light. He had his sword to collect first and then the others would need his help.

And maybe a little wood to collect. He should have at least one trophy, surely? But there was time for that later. The wounded and unconscious would have to come first.

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia: A Breath Of Fresh Air.

Sef struggled a little up the stairs of Moonstone Temple and through the illusion that served as a means of protection for the entrance, his injuries beginning to take a toll on him now that the adrenaline of battle was subsiding. He made a mental note to get someone to take a look at the more severe injuries in a while, but for now he was happy to be outside in the open air with no immediate threat of injury or assault. It was a sense of freedom, and he marveled at the simple beauty of the hidden grotto in which the temple resided. But mostly it was good to be outside again.

The ranger saw Wyn nearby, perched on one of the larger boulders. He too, it seemed, had desired some space and was looking intently at Alonwë, the ranger's sword, glinting in the bright sunlight. Sef wandered over and somewhat gingerly climbed alongside the elf.

*I hope he doesn't mind a bit of company,* thought Sef. *At least, not mine.*

Wyn greeted Sef as he reached the top and gave him some assistance, although he too appeared to carry several severe wounds.

<Alderami>"Not in very good shape, are we?"</Alderami> he joked, and Sef had to smile at the sight of them both - bloodied and battered, but victorious for now, and able to bask in the glow of their hard won victory.

<Alderami>"It's good to see the light again, though. I thought I might not see it again."</Alderami> the ranger commented, and Wyn merely nodded at that meant to both of them. They were quiet for a while, both elves not feeling the need to talk needlessly to fill the time, but instead happy to enjoy the sensation of Gimarian on their faces and the light breeze in the air. It felt fresh and clear and carried no danger for them. Not yet, anyway.

Wyn held Alonwë up to the light, and Sef could see in his eyes admiration for the quality of the craftsmanship before him. The long, blood red leather handle ran seamlessly into a finely wrought silver blade that tapered and curved gracefully into the tip, but Wyn quickly noticed the delicate runes etched into the blade. He read them, struggling only a little with the slightly archaic dialect in which they were written, and then looked at Sefarlain directly.

"So this is your blade? I don't recognize the maker, but the craftsmanship is superb. Its weight is unusual, though."

Sef nodded.

"Her name is Alonwë, as you read. We have been together for some sixty years now. She was made for me specifically by the master sword smith who serves the Valantaúr after ten years of service in the Order." He took the sword gently from Wyn and looked at the blade almost reverently. "Her journey is bound with mine now; I cannot take another blade in her place. Well, I can . . . ," he corrected himself, "but I should always retain this one, even if some more powerful weapon should one day become my primary."

He slid the longsword into the leather scabbard that, Wyn noticed, was the same color as the hilt of the sword.

*How much does a blade of that quality cost?* Wyn wondered. *And how did a simple ranger come to own such an object?*

Not that Wyn could have known the full nature of the Valantaúr and their almost religious attachment to their Golodhrim, or kin-swords. This was not information to share lightly or freely, even amongst fellow elves. But had he known it, Wyn would have realized what a prize he had held in his hands. Sefarlain had not won the sword easily or without much pain, both physical and financial. For the most part, during his time with the Valantaúr he had paid almost his entire wage to repay his debt. True, he had a fine blade, but that was all he owned in the world. Yet all that was hidden from Wyn.

The pair talked for several minutes more, a little about the islands of Alderami, and somewhat more carefully about Wyn's home. Sef thought the elf seemed more guarded than his other newfound friends, but could sympathize with his approach.

*We each have our own secrets to keep,* he reminded himself, thinking of his own mother's fate and how he had never talked of her to anyone other than his family.

As the pair talked, the temple's worries melted further and further away, but eventually both remembered the plight of their fallen colleagues in the vault. Sefarlain slid from the rock and headed back, leaving Wyn for a moment on the boulder. The ranger had to attend to others now.

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia: Spell Dreams

Darkness engulfed Tyrulf before he landed from the blow the nightmare had dealt him. Silence engulfed him for what seemed like an eternity, until a light in the distance appeared. It grew as it moved slowly toward Tyrulf. It was a horse - a simple riding horse that floated by. Yet it seemed familiar somehow, but Tyrulf could not pinpoint why. It continued on without seeming to notice Tyrulf. Darkness crept back in for another time. Another eternity past as far as Ty could tell. In the distance another light appeared, moving toward him. Another scene appeared, this one a familiar one. A horse was in the distance with water in the background. A few seconds later Tyrulf could see clearer, although he was still distant. There was a horse with fire surrounding it, attacking two people. Running towards the beast seemed to go in slow motion for Tyrulf as he pumped his legs as fast as he could. In front of him symbols appeared. Their meaning was lost at first, but looking upon them as he ran, Tyrulf saw their purpose. With those symbols he could move faster; maybe could have been there sooner; maybe he would be there sooner next time.

Darkness descended again, closing around Tyrulf in an instant. Floating then, again with no direction.

A light once more approached and Tyrulf saw himself, pointing at the evil horse and saying words of power. A sliver of light left his hand, streaking toward the foul beast. The image faded as darkness fell once again. The vision had less substance than the last, Tyrulf believed, as he was floating in the void.

Time had stopped, or had it?

Once again the light in the distance approached and Tyrulf could see himself - no, was himself in the scene. An all too familiar scene, he realized that those were the last moments of his life. For, as he had surmised, that was the afterlife. Not that he was a thinking being at the time. It was not like he was standing in the darkness, thinking of things in the past. It was a feeling; it seemed to him he was falling more than not.

Now the scene was that of Tyrulf's final battle with the accursed beast. He moved without thought for his own safety. There was only one likely way to be able to utilize the remaining time of his spell - attack the creature, and hope it would fall for his trickery. There was a price for this move he knew; it would leave him open to attack. Too many lives were at stake. If his were to be lost, it would be lost while doing as much damage as he could.

He could feel himself shift his weight after the feint, moving back to the other side, starting his swing and leaving himself open for attack. Movements slowed to near stillness; he could see in the distance writing - archaic writing - flowing toward him. The words were unfamiliar, though the language seemed recognizable. As he watched the words flow towards him, he was starting to find their meaning. The words approached him, wrapping around his body. Looking down upon himself he could see a faint glow, shimmering armor, where movements became normal and the Hell horse attacked him, but instead of the burning sensation from the hooves of the beast, Tyrulf felt nothing.

Looking down he saw the hooves coming at him, even though they had already struck. The scene replayed, but with a different ending. The hooves, instead of hitting him, grazed the shimmering armor, which to his mind flared up a small bit. Looking up at the nightmare, Tyrulf wanted to strike again, since it missed this time.

Darkness again. What cruelty was this? To show him that with more power he could have survived?

He drifted in darkness and pain, his thoughts incoherent in the shadowy abyss.

- MJA (Tyrulf)

PBEM Orlantia: Much Deserved Rest.

The nightmare was defeated. It was over.

From her position leaning against the pantry wall, Afyanna looked over the scene. Another had fallen, but thankfully Mystir seemed to have the situation under control. The way he worked over the prone druid, it was clear she was alive. She had seen Febriwyn and Sefarlain head toward the main temple, so she knew they were ok.

The holy warrior again raised her face skyward and silently thanked her lord.

*We're hurt,* she thought, *but we made it.*

Jahar, of course, was not so lucky, but that had been a few days prior. Afyanna had tried hard to put his death behind her. It still hurt, though. The responsibility for the party, as it was her quest, ultimately fell to her. She had let Jahar down. Or more correctly, had let down his friends and family. But that was before, so she didn't include the sailor in her current mental tally.

Two battles in quick succession had leached every ounce of energy from her body. Afy hefted her sword and had to use her left hand to assist in guiding it back into its scabbard. The sound of her sword dropping heavily into the scabbard echoed off the stonewalls of the pantry. Naught else disturbed the silence that had descended upon them once the battle was won.

She pushed off the wall, groaning with the excruciating effort even just moving seemed to require. Afyanna retrieved her thrown dagger, the mark on the wall telling her where to look, and then moved toward where Alana lay.

"How is she?" Afy asked.

"She'll be ok," Mystir replied, having returned to the fallen druid after the ranger had departed. "Once we can get our spells back, we'll all be ok."

Afyanna nodded. *Time to start thinking about what to do next.*

"Let's get her out of here and back into the main temple. I'd rather we not be so scattered."

Mystir just nodded in agreement. He was finished with Alana's wounds, anyway, and had been cleaning the blood from his own hands.

As gently as they could manage, the two of them carried Alana into the temple proper and laid her out near the altar. Very faint voices wafted in from beyond the illusionary curtain at the entrance nearly 30 feet up, and Afy recognized them to be Wyn and Sef. They seemed to be chatting about something, though she was too far away to hear it clearly. Afyanna decided there was no need to disturb the two of them.

"Let's get Cosher and Tyrulf as well," she said to Mystir. "We should keep an eye on everyone until we can get our healing back."

From her time spent in the Double Moon Temple, Afy knew that without magic, a person could easily seem to be healing only to slip away and die. It was important to not leave the unconscious unattended, though such unexpected deaths rarely happened once magic healing - any magic healing - had graced their wounds. They might still die of thirst or the like, if neglected, but other complications rarely set in after magic healing was applied, and she was thankful for its awe-inspiring power.

With the aid of Bebe and Valin, Afy and Mystir carried the other two party members up from the vault stairwell and set them near Alana by the altar. Without Timber or nightmare stealing their focus, each of her unconscious comrades were more thoroughly examined. They were out, but were stable, and would be fine until they came to on their own, or were revived through the mystic crafts. Without magic, a simple chicken broth administered several times a day would eventually see them through, but that could take many days. Luckily, they had magic, or soon would again.

With the wounded of the party attended to, Afyanna looked at the altar itself. Upon it lay a battered and crushed figure.

Mystir noted the change in Afyanna's expression and followed her gaze to the altar. "Is that . . . ?" he began.

"The Holy Warrior of Wrath, Joree Sheen," Afy replied, without taking her eyes from the body.

Of course it was no surprise whose body it was. Afyanna had told them all what she experienced in the soul field. And they had all glimpsed the woman's dead form during the ensuing battles. Still, it was something quite powerful to be looking at a figure from Joad's - and Wrath's - complex history.

Mystir stood up and moved closer to Afyanna. As he did, the dark shadows created by the light stone - he had finally managed to wrest from Lucian - slid down toward the floor of the back wall. The bright white light illuminating the corpse only increased the paleness of her lifeless skin.

The mage halted his approach about two steps further from the altar than Afyanna. It seemed to him that the two holy warriors were somehow connected, and he did not wish to intrude.

Looking down at Joree was an odd experience. A scant two days before, Afyanna had been on that very altar looking up at the approaching Timber - and death.

Joree's right arm hung over the edge of the crescent-shaped stone. The wrist was still swollen and there was a noticeable bend in the middle of her forearm - exactly where no bend should be. Afyanna grimaced and couldn't help but massage her own arm. She remembered that pain all too well.

The expression frozen on the centuries-old corpse was a mixture, and not even remotely akin to the serene beauty of the statue a few miles to the north. Shock, surprise, pain, and . . . acceptance? Yes, acceptance. Joree had accepted that the battle would end there, with her, and one final sacrifice.

With the remembrance of that last act, something more tugged at Afy's mind.

*The dagger,* she realized. *Where is it?*

Joree's left arm was bent so that her hand was on her chest - or what was left of it, anyway. The force of the Timber's last blow had been enough to totally crush the holy warrior's chest and nearly break her body in two.

Moving the remains of Joree's crushed arm gingerly aside, Afyanna thought she spied a hint of metal within the center of the destruction.

Yes, the jeweled dagger remained, having ended her life. Afyanna pulled it out to relieve the insult to the fallen warrior. It still had wet blood on it. *Stasis fields, time stops?* she surmised. *No appreciable time had past within the soul field,* she concluded. But there was nothing to be done for Joree. She was well beyond help - even any magical help they might have would be of no avail.

Looking at the jeweled dagger, Afyanna saw the sheath for it and recovered that, as well, from the fallen holy warrior. Returning the dagger home, she clipped the thin belt around her own waist for the nonce.

"What do we do with her?" Bebe asked quietly.

"I believe she should be interred in the catacombs below," Afy replied. "But truly I do not know the proper customs." Afyanna thought a moment before adding, "so we need a priest. One who knows what should be done for someone of her stature."

In truth, Afyanna knew the minimal requirements, but she dearly wanted more for Joree.

Valin and Mystir seemed to be nodding in agreement to her wishes. If it had been any one of them who needed burial, Afy was certain it could be attended to without much effort. The matter-of-fact way her mind glided over that thought was troublesome, but she moved on.

For a person who not only saved the entire area from destruction, but was also centuries old . . . this required special treatment, Afy assumed. Of course, the temple had no priest at the moment, which presented other problems. Like how to keep Joree's body safe until one could be fetched. And there was the body of the purple mage, besides. She didn't even want to guess what might become of that.

Afyanna shook her head to empty the clutter of mundane issues beginning to pile one upon the other in her mind. There were more important things to consider - though a priest was one of them for other reasons as well.

"Sef! Wyn!" Afyanna called toward the entrance. "Can you come in please?"

The was no alarm in her voice, so the two arrived a few moments later, unhurried. It was clear to Afy that they too were feeling the effects of the battles just as much as she.

Seeing their fallen comrades arrayed before the altar, Sef tilted his head. "What's the matter?" he asked slowly.

Afyanna noted his confusion. "Oh, with them? Nothing. We just thought we should keep an eye on them while they recovered. Here was easier than down there."

Sef merely shrugged his shoulders. Whether it was agreement or acceptance, she did not know.

"First," Afy began, addressing each of them, "thank you. Thank you for assisting me on this quest. I do not know if it is yet complete, but even if it turns out that it is not, without you, I would have failed long ago."

They regarded her in respected silence.

"Secondly," she continued, "well done! Whether or not this is truly over, we have won a great victory today." Valin, Sef, and Wyn all nodded, small grins forming on their faces. Bebe on the other hand was smiling broadly.

Afyanna kept going. "We freed Joree's soul from its entrapment. We finished her last task by destroying the champion of the drow. And we finally killed that evil steed that has dogged us for days. Truly, this is a great day!"

They were all smiling and nodding now. The pall that had settled over the group was lifting as she spoke.

"It is truly fitting that this great day falls on the Holy Day to Corellon Larethian," she added, fingering the medallion hanging over her chest.

"The Holy Day?" Valin said, having momentarily forgotten it.

"Yes, so we need to get back to Joad before nightfall to bear witness to the statue." Afyanna looked again to the members of the party on the floor. "I have a feeling it will be interesting, and I would like us all to be there to watch."

"I know there is still much to do here in the temple," the kin-der continued. "A more thorough examination of the rooms for one, but we must rest up for the trek back to Joad. I hope everyone will all be awake by then, but if not, we'll need all our strength to assist them in the journey."

"Oh I can't wait to see what the statue does!" said Bebe, without a trace of the weariness from before.

"I don't actually 'know' it is going to do anything," replied Afy. "But there seems to be a lot of clues that something wonderful may happen."

"Besides," Sef said, "we need to let Horton know the nightmare is dead." He was still fingering the odd statue that dropped.

*One of many mysteries yet unsolved,* Afy noted.

She looked to each of them, trying to gauge the extent of their injuries. "Bebe, you and Valin take first watch. Sef and I will take second, and Mystir and Wyn will take 3rd. The watches are short, since we don't have much time until sundown. Besides, I have a feeling no matter how we feel now, as soon as we get comfortable we'll badly want to sleep! So we'll keep them short."

Five heads bobbed in understanding.

"For those who can, our priority is to rest here within this temple, and upon this holy ground. If you can manage it, pray for healing spells and assistance. It's only about noon now, so after eight hours' rest, and another hour of prayer and study, we may regain some badly needed strength. Then we can travel back to Joad with plenty of time to bear witness to whatever may be there." She finished then, having said all she had wanted, and then stretched out on the nearest pew and quickly fell asleep.

- Rick (Afyanna)

PBEM Orlantia: Fallen Comrades.

His eyes readjusting to the darkness of the temple, Sefarlain walked carefully down the steps into the main hall. He knew he lacked the skills to assist his friends who had suffered in the battle, but he wanted to help as much as he could anyway, and Afyanna's call as he approached the entrance just confirmed his wishes.

Besides this, he had several other matters on his mind. Firstly to reexamine the purple wizard. Where was his staff? Did he have any other equipment on him that would suggest caring for a horse? And were there any other clues as to his identity, be it rings, hair color or whatever? Some mystery surrounded that man, and the ranger couldn't help but think it held a vital clue to the mysterious circumstances in Wrath.

As Sef entered the temple, the sight of his injured friends refocused his mind. They had to get those people out of danger. Enough people had died because of the nightmare; now they had to save those in front of them.

Afyanna spoke for a brief time before suggesting some covering watches.

"That's fine, Afy. I just have a thought, though. Does anyone have any healing abilities beyond what we have done already? I just want to ensure we've done everything we can. Otherwise, you're right; we should get some rest and try and get the others on their feet as quickly as possible."

Sef moved over towards Joree and the altar. Mystir had stated he could see the altar when he had cast Detect Magic - did that mean it was magical in some way? He knelt by Joree's body, placed a hand on the altar, then offered a quick prayer to Corellon before standing again and thinking what he should do next.

Others were attending to Cosher, Tyrulf, and Alana, or reviewing their spellbooks, so Sef took the opportunity of examining the body of the wizard once more. Once he had finished there, he wanted to borrow the Continual Light stone and carefully reexamine the temple, and also make a careful note of the number of bottles they might need to transport.

Preparation was always useful.

All that, he wished to do, but he felt extremely fatigued just then. The battle had taken its toll, and he needed rest. A few hours would do. He was scheduled for second watch. If each watch were three hours this time, that meant he could grab three hours' reverie and be quite fresh compared to the others.

Finding a quiet corner in the hall by the secret door, he slid to the floor and began his meditation. As he did so, he marveled at the battered secret stone door. A few more minutes and it would have been breached, he could see. There would be no easy way to hide the damage. The fabulous secret door was now, and perhaps forever, far from secret anymore. It would take an expert in dwarven craftsmanship to repair that. And until it was, the vault of iniquities would be virtually apparent to any who entered the temple.

*We might have to keep this whole temple a secret for a good while yet,* he thought, *lest curiosity seekers release something even more horrible than the nightmare upon Wrath.

Shaking his head, he cleared his thoughts and began the reverie.

- Justin (Sefarlain)